Chapter 9 #2
Darcy murmured his thanks, though he doubted she had made the arrangement with his preferences in mind. More likely she wishes to force an intimacy that does not exist.
The room was, indeed, pleasant. Well-appointed, with high ceilings and new wallpaper. She lingered long enough to comment on the marble-topped washstand and the “good light for reading,” before finally withdrawing with a demure smile that lingered a touch too long.
Darcy shut the door with a quiet exhale. I shall need to have Bates sleep in my room with me whilst I am here. He groaned slightly at the memory of doing so at the last house party he attended—his valet’s snoring meant he had little sleep through the duration of his visit.
Half an hour later and feeling much refreshed, Darcy joined the others in the drawing room.
“I must say,” Bingley was declaring cheerfully, “the people here are capital company. The Gouldings are to dine next week, and I met the vicar just this morning—a very pleasant man. He mentioned his nieces, I think. And there is to be an assembly tomorrow at the town hall.”
Miss Bingley, lounging on the settee, wrinkled her nose. “An assembly?”
“Yes, a public one. I told Sir William I would attend—on behalf of the entire party, you know.”
“Charles,” she said with affected patience, “surely you do not mean us to attend as well?”
“I thought it would be a kindness to the locals.”
“A kindness?” She turned toward Darcy, eyes gleaming.
“Mr. Darcy, surely you are far too tired from travel to be dragged out to such an affair. And a man of your station—why, to be jostled about by country solicitors and tradesmen! It would be beneath your notice entirely. I shall remain back and keep you company, of course. A good hostess must make sacrifices.”
Darcy sat straighter in his chair.
“It would not have been my first choice,” he admitted slowly. “But it is important, I think, for a new tenant to establish goodwill with his neighbors.”
Bingley nodded emphatically.
“And to be seen breaking a promise, however lightly given,” Darcy continued, “would be a poor beginning. I am sure no one would think less of you, Miss Bingley, should you wish to remain behind. But Mr. Bingley must go.”
There was a short silence.
Darcy added, almost absently, “My stepmother has lately begun considering whether my sister should be allowed to attend some of the local assemblies near Pemberley in a year or two—Lambton, perhaps, or Kympton.”
Miss Bingley blinked. “Surely those are more refined than anything held in a market town like this. Especially with Pemberley so near to elevate the tone.”
Darcy’s expression did not shift. “I expect they are less so, in fact. Derbyshire is more remote. Meryton has the benefit of proximity to London. There is a greater mingling of society.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth opened, then closed. She pursed her lips in visible displeasure. From the corner, Mr. Hurst let out a stifled snort, and his wife gave him a sharp look of reproach.
Bingley beamed. “I knew you would not disappoint me, Darcy! I had hoped—well, I know how you feel about crowds, but you are right, of course. It is a matter of principle.”
Darcy inclined his head.
He did not add that avoiding Miss Bingley’s determined attentions for a few hours at a public gathering would be a greater relief than any rest the evening could offer.
∞∞∞
The drawing room at Longbourn was a flurry of satin, starch, and conflicting voices.
Jane stood before the pier glass in her new gown of rose muslin, soft as blush and trimmed modestly in white lace.
Her hair had been swept into a braided coronet, and her complexion glowed with a natural serenity which could not be bottled, powdered, or purchased—even though Mrs. Bennet had certainly tried.
“Oh, Jane,” Kitty sighed. “You look like a duchess.”
“Prettier than a duchess,” Lydia corrected. “I daresay no duchess has a figure or neck like hers.”
Mary, seated on the settee with her hands folded over her prayer book, sniffed. “Beauty is fleeting. ‘As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion’.”
No one answered.
Kitty and Lydia, undeterred, resumed their quarrel over a length of blue ribbon, both insisting they had laid claim to it first. Lydia had already affixed it to her hair; Kitty was now trying to tug it off.
“Girls!” Elizabeth said, raising her voice slightly.
She stood at the writing desk, one eye on the squabble and the other on a tenant ledger she had taken out “just for a moment.” A margin note regarding the Debbins’ barley planting had caught her attention earlier, and now it refused to be ignored.
She adjusted a figure, then sighed and set down her quill.
Her gown was one she had worn to at least three assemblies already—a pale green sprigged with darker flowers, with the faintest fading at the hem. Her coiffure was simple: a modest bun pinned with care but without flourishes. She had not the time, money, or inclination for fuss.
At that moment, Mrs. Bennet swept into the room with a swish of skirts and a rattle of bracelets.
“Mr. Bennet!” she called toward the hall. “Are you ready? We must be off shortly!”
From his office, his voice drifted lazily: “Enjoy yourselves, my dear.”
Mrs. Bennet scowled and turned toward the stairs. “Mr. Bennet, I insist! Mr. Bingley must have proper introduction, and it will not do to arrive without a gentleman to present the girls!”
“I daresay Sir William Lucas will be more than happy to do so,” came the reply. “It is his great delight to bow and present.”
Mrs. Bennet’s cheeks flushed. “Sir William will promote his own daughters before ours! And then what are we to do? Stand in the corner while that dreadful Miss Goulding engages all the officers? Mr. Bennet, you are the father of five unmarried girls!”
“Still?”
Lydia giggled. Mary frowned.
Elizabeth, watching the exchange, spoke up gently. “Papa, perhaps—just this once—you might attend? Only for the introductions?”
There was a pause.
Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway a moment later, spectacles perched on his nose, his book in hand. “My dear Lizzy,” he said with exaggerated fondness, “must you too betray me as well?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It would only be for a few hours. And then you might return to your book tomorrow with your conscience intact.”
He chuckled and looked down at the volume. “It is a very good book.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “but I believe Jane will look better tonight than words and paper.”
He glanced over at his eldest, who looked uncomfortable. “I daresay Mr. Bingley will be so taken with her beauty, he will introduce himself as opposed to waiting. No, there is no purpose for me there.”
“Papa,” she said quietly, taking a step closer, “this is not a trifling matter to Mama. Nor to the rest of us.”
“Nor is it to me,” he replied. “Which is precisely why I prefer to remain at home.”
Fanny wrung her hands. “But Mr. Bennet, who will introduce the girls?”
Mr. Bennet did not even look at his wife, instead turning back towards the direction of his study. “I have full confidence in your abilities to orchestrate a social siege without my assistance.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said once more, in her most reasonable voice, “it would cost you nothing but an hour. You could even return home and send the carriage back for us.”
He looked at her over his shoulder, not unkindly. “An hour is precisely what it would cost. And I find I value mine too dearly to trade it for the privilege of watching young men stumble over themselves in awe of your sister’s face and form.”
Elizabeth sighed but said nothing more.
Fanny threw up her hands. “It is a mercy I have any nerves left at all,” she cried. “One day, when we are destitute and friendless, then you will all see the error of ignoring my pleas!”
“Not I, for I shall be in my grave.” Mr. Bennet shrugged before disappearing from sight.
“Oh, Mr. Bennet!”
Mrs. Bennet stared after her husband, looking crestfallen. Elizabeth felt a rare twinge of sympathy for her mother. It cannot be easy, being treated by your partner in life with so little respect.
Straightening her shoulders, Mrs. Bennet turned and cast an appraising eye over her daughters.
“Very well! Into the carriage, all of you. Lizzy, fetch your wrap. Jane, be careful of your hem. Mary, do not read at the assembly—it is not becoming. And Kitty, if you do not stop squabbling with Lydia, I shall make you stay behind and help Hill with the dishes!”
The girls obeyed, herded by years of experience into swift, half-chaotic movement.
Elizabeth closed her ledger, tied the ribbon around it, and slipped it into her writing drawer.
As the girls crowded out to the carriage, she lingered behind for a brief moment, glancing once toward the ledgers she had just left.
Just one night, she told herself. Let it be enough. Let this Mr. Bingley be everything that Mama hopes for Jane.
Then she turned and followed her family into the evening.